


longview

by secondfiddle



Category: Marvel
Genre: M/M, why do i fucking do this to myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 02:59:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7296769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondfiddle/pseuds/secondfiddle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leave it to Wade Wilson, the fucking gold star, Grade A, USDA Choice idiot to make masturbation a difficult task.</p>
            </blockquote>





	longview

**Author's Note:**

> why is there so little cablepool shit...this is a crime  
> second person pov bc i cant write for shit, yellow boxes are | and white boxes are / /

You desperately check all five of your emails, click through the discarded messages in your three phone's inbox, and rush out to the door to see if a pretty, bikini wearing lady has a 'package' for you. You throw back the door, then slam it closed in defeat when you see nothing but the floral wallpaper decorating the hallway.

Shit. You're bored. Super bored. Pull out your metaphorical hair (Thanks Weapon X!) kind of bored. Shoot your brains out bored. 

|This is what happens when you spend all your money in less than a week,| the yellow box tuts, like he's you're mother or something. |What did you even buy that blew you whole budget?|

/Don't you remember? All those pretty shiny guns that nice man on Craigslist was selling us! They were like, only four hundred bucks for a whole box, it was such a steal we just couldn't past it up!/ White box says this as if it's weird that everyone but him forgot. You can hardly remember last night's events (Hookers? Blackjack? Cocaine? You explicitly remember stabbing someone), how can you remember what happened at the beginning of the week?

|Craigslist? The guy probably scammed the shit outta us and now we're out of our entire weekly budget. It's not even Wednesday yet.| Oh, so it's the beginning of the week. Well. That's not good.

"Will you just chillax? We're gonna be fine. The pizza in the fridge's only like, slightly moldy and we can always just track the scammy dude down and gut him if he ripped me off. Easy as pie." You flop down onto your worn Laz-e-Boy. "No need to be a Debbie fuckin' Downer."

/Yeah yellow! Stop being so mean!/

|If being a Debbie Downer saves us from starving to death, then so be it.|

"Great! Now, let's solve our current issue: being bored out of our fucking minds." Nobody says anything, and you rock back and forth gently on the chair. "So uh, any ideas?"

/Ooh! Ooh!! We could always read our comic book collection!/ Good ol' White, always the helpful one.

|We've already read those dumb comics a hundred times already. Maybe we should do something constructive for once.|

"Ew, something constructive? Like, work and shit and I'm not even getting paid for it? Not cool."

|Clean the bathroom maybe? You've been using the one in the apartment next door ever since you thought that ugly fetus baby thing from that horror game demo was living in your sink.|

/Uhm, no? That sounds naaaaasty. TV?/

|Nothing good is on at three AM in the morning. It's a fact.|

/Counting all of the dents in the wall?/

|We did that last week. There's approximately 39,171 dents in the whole apartment, varying in shape and size.|

/Counting all of the dents in the ceiling?/

|Now that we didn't do. There's a good idea I suppose.|

"Nah, rather stab my eyeballs out with rusty spoons than stare at the ceiling for three fucking hours." You stand up and stretch out, ignoring the nasty popping noises and padding over to your room. "I might actually take your advice for once, Yeller, I can hardly see the floor in here."

|This room has a floor other than tiddy magazines and guns?|

You decide to ignore that snide comment and actually get started. You start tossing everything into piles, one being stuff that's actually somewhat useful (like the tiddy mags that aren't nasty and those cool knives you forgot you had) and piles of things you don't know why you kept in the first place (why you had a stack of pizza boxes that you somehow kept in perfect condition, you don't know).

Five minutes later and you decide you've earned a nice break from the monotonous hell that is cleaning. You grab a semi-interesting magazine from the pile, shove the piles to the other side of the bed, and hop onto the top, making the pizza boxes jump a bit.

Where was that article you wanted to read? You flip through, trying to find where it was (they talk about making dildos! And people say magazines are a dying medium. Or is that newspapers?), but you're quickly distracted by this cute brunette with a nice rack and the cutest, skimpiest pink bikini. Oh well, it's not like the weirdest thing you have in your search history would be 'how do they make dildos'. Pretty sad you're getting kinda sorta hard at starring at said brunette on the next page with a finger up her ass. Would she even enjoy that?

It's also sad your hand goes on autopilot and snakes down into your boxers to massage your balls. Jacking off really often isn't really good for you if you do it too often, right? (Didn't someone die after jackin' it for like, two hours straight? Poor lonely bastard.) Not like anyone but you is gonna give your dick any love soon. You shiver and drop the magazine to the side when you start twisting your fist every time you go up and down. Your gaze lands on the floor. When was the last time you cleaned your apartment? Think think think.

Oh yeah, for Cable! Yeah, that was the best. You forced him to wait outside for twenty minutes while you frantically shoved most of the things on your floor into the closets, but he was actually kind of impressed! He gave you that nice 'you did a good job for once and I'm proud, Wade' smile that make your insides rip apart. You ordered Chinese and popped open that fresh six-pack in the fridge you just happen to have (because you wouldn't prepare stuff for Nate because you don't really care about him that much, yeah), and you both tried to outdo each other with wilder stories. Yours about the mime and the rocket launcher send you and Nate into laughing fits. 

Then you were an idiot and leaned into his touch too much when he hugged you on the way out and you may or may have not have kissed him. Only on the side of the mouth though, so it wasn't too gay or anything. Kidding! You did fucking kiss Nate Priscilla Goddamn Metal Jesus Summers on his mouth and he looked at you weird and you quickly kicked him out and avoided him like he was cancer (the healing factor resistant kind) for two weeks and never invited him back.

Fortunately, for your own good, Nate conveniently forgot those last five minutes of that night, and you two went back to mutually tolerating each other. Like everything should be. 

You groan and toss your head back. Leave it to Wade Wilson, the fucking gold star, Grade A, USDA Choice idiot to make masturbation a difficult task. 

Kay. No more flashbacky shit. Jack off time.

You spit in your palm to make the ride smoother and you resume slowly stroking up and down, up and down. Think about the brunette, or like literally any other woman. Like Domino! She's pretty. You remember you have her swimsuit cover somewhere in a pile, so you stop quickly to dig around for it around your bed. You hold it up triumphantly, then angry toss it across the room when you realize there's a nearly fucking naked Nate 'I have an eight pack' Summers directly behind her. Fucking great, now you remember that dream you had about Nate and the beach and shit. Your 'give a shit' meter is at a negative number now, so you just mouth 'fuck it, fuck this, fuck me, fuck everything, including you Summers', and you start stroking faster and close your eyes to try and recreate what you should've fucking done instead of just shoving him out the door and letting the one opportunity you had slip directly out of your hands.

You imagine pulling him back inside by his soft shirt, shoving the door closed by pushing him up against it and pressing your lips back to his. God, his lips were so soft and smooth, you'd kiss him all damn day if you could. You'd toy with him a bit, suck on his tongue while you rub your crotch against his, making that stoic asshole fall apart, slowly but surely. Maybe make a joke about guns down pants and being happy to see him. Nate would probably get exasperated at that point, perhaps get a little impatient and push you down where you'd happily sink to you knees and open his fly with your mouth, make him go absolutely nuts, that's the goal. Mouth around at his crotch, anywhere but the giant fucking dick you know he has for an absolute fact. (Those showers were not even remotely private in the least.)

Would Nate be nice and sweet, or get sick of your antics and shove the rest of his pants and underwear down and grip both sides of your face and lovingly guide your mouth to his dick? You groan at the thought of Nate manhandling the shit outta you (look, it's that whole 'no good male rolemodel' thing everyone talks about), rubbing your thumb over the head of your own dick to get some more slick. God yeah, you'd want your dream Nate to fuck your mouth like there's no tomorrow, shove your face into his crotch until your nose bumps the base and your drool is getting all over the place. You'd pull back, give him a look, and he'd smirk right back at you, the fucking cocky (ha!) sonuvabitch he can be.

"Just making sure there's going to be enough to make your ride easier."

You moan in absolute ecstasy and open your eyes, frantically searching the bedside table for the tiny bottles of lube you save especially for shit like this. You finally find one and shakily break it open, pouring some on your fingers and tossing it aside, watching it roll under the bed for maybe a millisecond before kicking off your boxers, flinging them into the wall. 

Your fingers aren't close to Nate 'My fingers could be mistaken as Oscar Meyer Wieners' Summer's, but they'll do for now. You bite down on your lip when you finally slip one inside, slowly pumping it in and out. Your eyes close again and you imagine Nate doing the same to you, lips brushing your neck, worrying a spot while he adds a second finger, giving you his award wining smile that lights your heart on fire while he's twisting his fingers on every other pump. You brush your prostate and you shove your face into a pillow to muffle your screaming.

You pull your fingers out and scour underneath the bed for the lost lube bottle, when you notice it stopped right next to that neon fucking dildo you bought last month and promptly forgot about less than a week later. Like Metal Jesus made it happen or something.

You grab both of them and flop back into bed, squeezing the rest of the lube onto the silicone and coating most of it, one hand leading it down and the other now stroking your leaking dick. You push it inside without much pause, and your head tilts back, chest heaving up and down as you slowly pull out and slam it back in. He would torture you like this, you'd imagine, doing everything nice and sweet, making you feel every single fucking inch of his cock and making you even more fucking crazy than you are already as you beg him to just fucking go the extra mile and destroy your ass. Nope, Nathan 'I Can't Listen For Shit' Summers would put his lips on yours, swallowing every scream you make with pleasure, even be a nice guy and sweep his thumb over the head of your cock just like how you did and slowly fucking jack you off too, like an asshole. A sweet, loving asshole, but still an asshole all the same.

You feel that wonderful warmth in your stomach and you screw your eyes shut and fuck yourself a bit faster as you quickly spit on your hand to stroke yourself faster. You shove your face into the pillow to muffle out the embarrassing rambling of the words 'fuck' and 'god' and 'i love you, nate' (eww you said you like him nasty!!) as you cum onto your hand and your bedsheets. 

You stay like that for a bit, contemplating shooting yourself for catching the feelings (for fucking Nathan's ugly ass, good job Wade) before you reach for your phone, quickly searching for Nate's picture in your contacts and hitting call.

"C'mon, pick up, pick up, pick-"

You hear a sleepy Nathan on the other end and it takes every fiber in you not to squeal in delight. "Wade? What's wrong, it's four in the morning."

"Nathan! Nate. Natey Boy. Hi! Whatchu' up to?" You sound like a fucking golden retriever. Not like that's desperate or anything.

"I was sleeping," he deadpans. "And your call woke me up."

"Great! Hey, uh, do you wanna come over today? Like, not immediately or anything, maybe like...this afternoon? Tonight? Tonight, tonight sounds good. We haven't seen each other in a while."

You hear Nate chuckle. "Wade, I was with you yesterday on a mission."

"Yeah, well you weren't at my apartment."

"I suppose you're right." You hear him sigh. "I'll see if I can move a few things for tonight."

You bite down hard on your hand so that you don't scream into the phone. "Great! Cool. See you tonight, Metal Jesus."

You can hear his eye roll. "See you tonight, Wade."

You hang up and fistpump the air. Then you see the still messy room. Shit. 

Well, that closet thing worked last time, right?

**Author's Note:**

> 1am mania is one helluva drug  
> i hate myself for writing this long ass piece of garbage please end my misery  
> comment on how shitty i am


End file.
